


swedish instructions.

by canniballistics



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Brainwashing, Gen, Headcanon, Mind Control, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-22
Updated: 2014-04-22
Packaged: 2018-01-20 08:22:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1503530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canniballistics/pseuds/canniballistics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eric Selvig went insane after Loki took control of his mind. Why wouldn't Clint?</p><p>Headcanon for why Clint didn't pop up in Cap 2.</p>
            </blockquote>





	swedish instructions.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the only excuse I will accept for Clint not being in Cap 2, okay.

"Clint! Snap out of it!"

He blinks, and the world is right again. It sends him reeling, stumbling back and landing hard on his ass. Natasha stands in front of him, lip split and breathing hard as she stares him down. "Nat?" The world is right again, but _he_ isn't. "What just…" There's no point in asking, though, because he already knows. If the world is right in this moment, then it was before, too. When he'd had a knife to Natasha's neck, and she'd had a gun to his temple. It's just an undeniable truth that the world had been right in that moment, same as it is now, and even if he knows why, it doesn't make it any better.

"God, Tasha, I'm- I didn't mean," he starts, dropping his knife and staring at his bruising knuckles.

"I know. C'mon." She wipes the blood from her mouth before stashing her gun, moving to hold out a hand and help him up. He bats her hand away, and she just sighs. "Clint…"

"No, Nat." Clint picks himself off the floor, flexes his hands before walking around to take a seat on the couch. "This isn't right, and you know it. I keep-" A pause, quiet as he breathes the words, "He's still in my head."

It's a big confession for him to make, but he has to do it. At least to Natasha, if no one else. They're sitting in his apartment, just the two of them when everyone else thinks Natasha's overseas. It doesn't escape him that a chair's been knocked over and magazines and old mail spilled on the floor. Guess it's lucky enough that he doesn't keep his apartment too clean in the first place. When he first got back after the battle with Loki and his aliens, the disorder had been a welcome reminder that he was still himself, even after what he'd done. Now, he's not so sure anymore. New York's been over and done with for a week and a half, but the aftereffects still linger, something no one had expected. Natasha just sighs again, grabbing the downed chair and seating herself in front of him. Clint can't look at her for more than a few seconds before he looks away, running a hand back through his hair. She doesn't say anything, just waiting for him to continue. So he takes a deep breath and does.

"It keeps happening. One minute, everything's fine. The next, it's still fine, but in all the _wrong_ ways. I can see things with that same awful clarity as…before." He clenches his hand into a fist to keep from the temptation of trembling. An archer with a tremor in his hand, that's the last thing he needs right now. A harsh laugh. "Looks like I might need another cognitive recalibration. Maybe try using something a little stronger this time, though. Think Banner'd want to lend a hand?"

Natasha just smirks. "I think he and Stark have locked themselves away in Stark's basement. Who knew that science could bring people together like that?" The smirk falls away, and she resettles herself in the chair, serious this time but with something gentler in her expression. It's a side to her that Clint guesses he's the only one she's shown, appreciates that she feels comfortable enough to let her guard down around him even when he's still compromised like this. "Listen to me. You had a _god_ in your head. That's not so easy to come down from."

It feels like the world shifts on its axis as Clint looks at her. "Yeah, and you're the expert on gods, right? What do you know, Romanoff?"

Because what does she really know? She's never been anything more than a puppet, a trained attack dog who serves a new master whenever the old one falls. Brainwashed, yes, but hers had been the effect of _humans_. What the hell would she know about _this_? His fingers twitch, and he can see the change in her face when she notices. The room gets immediately tense as they watch each other, and suddenly, he knows that she can't actually kill him. _Won't_ might be the better word for it.

That's an advantage he plans to use.

She's the one who moves first, quick to pull a gun and aim it between his eyes. "Clint, you need to snap out of it, right now. This isn't you."

"How would you know?"

He's just as quick when he disarms her, slapping her hand to the side and grabbing the gun from her fingers. He pulls the trigger as she ducks out of the way, barely manages to evade it when she kicks out at him. Her heel collides with his knuckles instead, knocking the gun out of his grasp. He reaches under the couch for the small crossbow he keeps hidden as Natasha rolls away, pulling a knife from her boot and brandishing it defensively. A second passes, and then they're both upright and mobile as the fight continues. Natasha runs through the apartment as Clint fires at her, only one of the arrows managing to graze her before she dives into the kitchen; the rest leave a trail along the wall and he curses quietly as he grabs more.

The apartment is silent, nothing but the sound of his blood pounding in his ears as Clint steals over to the kitchen's other doorway. He braces himself against the wall for a second, two, before whipping around the corner at the sound of something shifting. He gets two bolts fired before he realizes no one's there; in the next instant, something hard slams into his back. He stumbles forward as the chair breaks around him, dropping his crossbow but managing to keep his grip on the arrows. Natasha is on him in an instant then. She jumps onto his back, trying to take him down and failing. He rears back to slam her into the wall for her efforts, but she doesn't let go. The two of them totter as he tries to adjust for the added weight, stumbling back into the dining area before losing his balance. They both go down, crashing into his crappy little table and utterly destroying it. Both spies lie there groaning, but Natasha's the one to recover first, bracing a foot against Clint's shoulder and pulling at his arm to dislocate it. She swings around to pin the other limb to the floor as he yells, kneeling on his chest with her knife pressed into the flesh of his throat.

"Wake up, Clint. _Now_. I don't want to kill you if I don't have to."

When he looks up at her, the world falls back into place again. His voice is rough, low as he says, "Tasha?" The knife doesn't move though; if anything, she presses down a little harder. He tilts his head back, voice catching. "Natasha, it's me. I swear."

A long moment passes before Natasha withdraws the knife, sheathing it before releasing him. She helps him to his feet, letting out a heavy breath as she looks around the apartment. He's silent when he notices that her cheek is cut and the split in her lip has started bleeding again. "I think we need to get you into detox, Clint."

There's a bitter chuckle. "Yeah, y'think?" Clint groans, rolling his good shoulder before taking in the damage. If Natasha notices the way his hand shakes, she doesn't say anything, and this time he can't really stop it. A harsh sigh, trying not to zero in on the fact that he isn't in control of himself anymore. It’s not working so well, but hey. Anything he can do to distract himself from it. "There goes my security deposit."

"Yeah, well. It was a crappy apartment anyway. If it bothers you that much, I'll take you to Ikea when I get back. Here." She beckons for him to follow her, picking her way through the destroyed dining area on her way to the door. "I know somewhere you can bottom out in peace. Nice and secluded; you’ll have more than enough privacy. Even S.H.I.E.L.D. doesn’t know about it.”

Clint groans, cupping his shoulder. “Sounds perfect. Not really sure how I’m going to explain this to my landlord, though.” He takes a move to follow her, then stops. “Hey, do me a favor before we leave?”

Natasha stops, about to grab her suitcases from where she’d left them by the door. “Sure. What is it?” she asks, one eyebrow rising.

“Think you could relocate my shoulder? It kinda hurts.”

There’s a pause, and then she continues out the door, suitcases in hand. “Not until we get to my place. Call it an insurance policy.”

“Aw, Nat! C’mon!”

“Nope. Move it or lose it, Barton.”


End file.
